


On Your Mouth I Will Tell It Chapter 1

by shouldbeover



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-13
Updated: 2011-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-22 06:55:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/235130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shouldbeover/pseuds/shouldbeover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>To put it mildly, Sherlock Holmes is a force of nature, a madcap whirlwind of id, of flying spidery limbs and agitated coat.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To put it mildly, Sherlock Holmes is a force of nature, a madcap whirlwind of id, of flying spidery limbs and agitated coat.

To put it mildly, Sherlock Holmes is a force of nature, a madcap whirlwind of id, of flying spidery limbs and agitated coat.

John Watson is not. He is a constant of nature, a tree bending in the storm that is Sherlock, but standing straight when the storm has passed. He is the ego that minimizes damage, that says sorry to bowled over pedestrians and insulted bystanders.

Alright, maybe that's too poetic.

But, the next twenty minutes will forever be a blur in John's mind, the 20 minutes after the kiss, after the invitation, after the declaration. There was the frenetic dash, following Sherlock's coattails again, to the ticket counter. Sherlock kissing him while a flustered attendant scrambled to complete the transaction and hold the plane. Then the crazed dash back, some bullying from Sherlock to get them through check-in, and rushing past the flight crew to board. Then the confusion of trying to get people to swap seats so that they could sit together; John attempting to ignore the glares and protests of the other passengers. Because of the late purchase, John's seat was all the way in the back by the toilets. So, the person in the seat next to him was dispatched up to Sherlock's seat and at last the plane was taxiing into position for take-off.

Sherlock began tapping his fingers in agitation against his thigh. He twitched, crossed and uncrossed his legs, and gritted his teeth.

"What, are you afraid of flying?" asked John.

"No."

"Then what?"

"I want to be kissing you and I can't with this bloody seatbelt."

John had to laugh, he really did. "It's all right. I'm not going anywhere. We're trapped on a plane for two hours. There will be time for kissing. And anyway, I can still do this," he took Sherlock's hand and slowly kissed the back, then turned it over and kissed the palm. "And this," he leant his head on Sherlock's shoulder, still holding hands. "The seatbelt light will go off soon enough."

"Not soon enough," muttered Sherlock, but he settled back and seemed content to kiss the top of John's head for awhile.

The moment the light went out, and Sherlock was watching carefully, he was sliding forward in his seat so that he could lift the arm rest and inelegantly lean in to take John's face in his hands and kiss him. It was softer than the kisses in the terminal, but more awkward as well. This was more like a first kiss; the tentative exploration, the wondering what the other is thinking, feeling; the processing of one's own emotions.

Sherlock had so little experience of this, stumbled and fumbled things in adolescence and university days. And he had dreamt of this for too long. He had dreamt of John's thin lips quirky in a smile as they leaned in together. He had dreamt of the feel of John's short hair in his hands. He had tried to calculate what would happen if… and what would happen if not... He had tracked every time John's uniqueness had nearly overwhelmed him, and every time John had defended him. And he had burned each time John didn't.

John had an experience of women which extended over many nations and three separate continents, but absolutely none with men. And what was Sherlock exactly? A man without a doubt, but mainly Sherlock, whatever that might mean at any given moment. Additionally he had been unaware or in denial of his own feelings up to a few hours previous. But John was nothing if not brave. He'd stared down the most dangerous man in England and attacked the most psychopathic. He'd invaded Afghanistan. At that moment, the feel of Sherlock's lips, Sherlock's furtive tongue darting in and out, wasn't strange or disturbing at all, partially because Sherlock was so obviously vulnerable in this and that kind of fragility brought out a need in John to protect and was damn flattering, but also because John realized that he had always been helpless in front of Sherlock, just not quite in the way he had thought.

Now that they had it, now that the bridges had been crossed or burnt to ash, there was nothing else for it but to savor each breath and gasp, each brush of lips on skin or stroke of tongue.

They only really became aware of their surroundings when there was a polite cough and the flight attendant was there with the beverage cart.

"Would you gentlemen care for a beverage?"

"Um, scotch and soda, please," said John, and Sherlock ordered a tonic with lime.

"Are you two on honeymoon? You are so adorable together," she smiled as she set their glasses down.

They glanced at each other, neither quite sure. "Sort of," John answered finally.

"Well, you have a wonderful time. I can tell you're both so in love with each other."

In love? Were they in love? Each man ran through the connotations and permutations and repercussions of that, each in their own way: Sherlock at lightning speed, running if/then cycles in his mind; John in a more a+b kind of way.

It was difficult to keep kissing with John's tray down, but Sherlock endeavored to do so anyway, until John finally had to push him away to finish his drink.

"Sherlock, it's really all right. We can pause to breathe."

Sherlock looked into his lap and back out to the aisle for a moment, brow furrowed, lips pouting.

"John, I…you don't know how long I've imagined your face looking up at mine with that look in your beautiful eyes, and I'd resigned myself to never seeing it. You can't blame me for not wanting it to stop."

"Shh…I didn't say it would stop. I said we can take a breath."

And when the drinks were done their mouths were back together, tasting of Scotch and lime. There were some comments from people using the toilet which ranged from the happily positive, to the mildly bothered to the downright disgusted which made Sherlock stiffen and John want to get up and punch someone for Harry and Clara, and now himself and Sherlock and for every other person doing what any heterosexual couple might do without comment, but they managed to tolerate it all until the flight attendants were announcing that they had to return to their forward facing positions.

At last they were landing at Edinburgh International Airport. There was the usual struggle out of the plane, compounded by Sherlock refusing to let go of John's hand, a cab ride where John had to stop Sherlock from practically climbing into his lap, and finally arrival at the much too posh Caledonian Hilton.

Sherlock kept kissing him as they checked in, pausing only long enough to answer questions and pass over a credit card. John finally managed to extricate himself long enough to ask if there was an all-night chemist in the area.

"Sherlock, I'm going to go get some toiletries."

Sherlock looked absolutely aghast for a moment and then crestfallen.

"I'm only going around the corner. Go up to the room." Warm the bed for me, John wanted to say. Be in it naked when I get back. But he didn't. Two hours of kissing Sherlock, his lover? his boyfriend? the exquisite and brilliant creature, the mad man, had left him aching, but he didn't know where all this was going. Didn't know if Sherlock knew where it was going.

The chemists was too bright, and the attendant too bored. John took a basket and grabbed a toothbrush, travel size toothpaste and deodorant, a comb, cheap razors and shaving cream. And then he hesitated but finally dashed down the proper aisle to grab a pack of condoms and a full-size bottle of lube (perfectly sized to take on a plane he noted rather wildly). They also sold socks but no boxers, so at least he'd have clean feet for Christmas.

He returned to the hotel and went up to their room. Taking a deep breath at the door he let himself in with his card, hung up his coat in the closet and walked into the main room.

Sherlock was not in bed, naked or otherwise, but rather sitting at the table dressed in purple silk pajamas with his laptop open beside him.

Sherlock looked up warily. "John, I know this has all been rather sudden and if you want to just—"

"I bought condoms and lube," John blurted. As romantic declarations go it was pretty much rubbish, but it seemed to do the trick because Sherlock was out of the chair and over to John in one stride of his long legs, whereupon he attempted to do several mutually impossible things at once. He pushed his fingers into John's hair while simultaneously trying to pull off John's jumper. He tried to fumble with the buttons on John's jeans while pulling John too close to move his hand between them. He tried to push John backwards onto the bed while still holding him upright to keep kissing. He was trembling, actually trembling with emotions, too many emotions for him to adequately register with his limited experiences as if they too were jumbling together with his contradictory actions.

"Sh'rlock, Sherlock…SHERLOCK!" John pushed him back sharply. Sherlock's face twisted into a shocked and panicked expression. John put his finger up to Sherlock's lips. "I'm not going away. I just think it might be easier if I did this myself.

John stripped off his jumper and let Sherlock help him work his shirt buttons so that their hands met in the middle and then John's shirt was off, and Sherlock thought that John's chest was better than he'd even imagined, light muscling, soft curls of hair and the war wound like a badge of honor.

Then John was quietly undoing the buttons on Sherlock's pajama top while kissing Sherlock's neck. Sherlock fumbled with the drawstring on the bottoms, succeeded in knotting it and cursed until John worked the knot loose and pulled them down over Sherlock's hips.

John drew in his breath. Sherlock didn't wear underwear for starters. His penis was hard, jutting out from his dark pubic hair. He really was quite beautiful. Long, slim, pale legs, slender hips meeting an equally narrow waist. And John needed to get out of his jeans right now. He bent to undo his shoes and couldn't resist kissing the jut of Sherlock's hipbone, causing Sherlock to gasp. Then John stood up, undid his jeans and slipped them down and off with his underpants.

He reached up and kissed Sherlock again, lovingly, then took his hand, led him to the turned down bed and eased Sherlock back into it.

Irrationally Sherlock offered "I ate the mint."

"Of course you did," John chuckled, "I don't mind."

John leant over Sherlock and kissed him, tenderly but firmly, moved his hand along Sherlock's arm, reverently along the side of his ribs, and then slipped his arm around him to pull him close. Sherlock wrapped John in his arms, sighing into the slow burn of their kiss. Their bare skin pressed together and Sherlock wrapped a leg over John's to run his foot along the backs of John's calves and thighs.

John pulled back reluctantly, "Sherlock, have you ever had sex?"

Sherlock bit his lip, "Depends on your definition. Does it matter?"

"No, not in the slightest. Let's just take this that we are both virgins from this moment on, shall we?

"I'm going to get the lube from the bag. Stay here."

"Where would I go?"

"True," John kissed him softly again.

Walking across the room naked, John was much too aware of Sherlock staring at him. He came back with the shopping bag and dropped it by the bed.

"You're beautiful, John," Sherlock whispered, "I know you don't believe it, but you are."

"And you're an idiot." John moved back into Sherlock's arms. It was amazing how this felt so comfortable, so right so quickly. How good Sherlock felt pressed against him. And, oh, how nice it felt to be kissing Sherlock's lips, tasting the edges of his mouth. And when Sherlock reached between them to stroke his aching cock, that was somewhat more than nice.

They paused to fumble lubricant into their hands and stroke each other, mouths against each other's necks, shoulders.

"Oh, God, John, I think I'm going to come."

"Yes, I've got you. Come for me." Sherlock's back arched and then he shuddered forward, coming warm and slick over John's hand, both their chests, biting his lips to keep from screaming.

He was so exquisite, so abandoned that John wasn't far behind.

For a few minutes they just held each other, letting themselves calm back down. It was too much—Sherlock was completely limp and John suddenly felt every moment of the very long Christmas Eve. John fetched a towel from the bathroom, cleaned them both up and eased Sherlock's head to his shoulder, slipping an arm around him.

Sherlock woke in the early hours of Christmas Day, startled awake by the jolt through John's body. John twitched and shuddered while he slept. That was something to remember and solve. Sherlock couldn't tell if John were dreaming nightmares—couldn't see if John's eyes were flitting back and forth beneath his lids in REM-or if it was just muscular spasms. Random lines from some barely remembered poem from school flittered back to him:

And indeed there will be time  
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"  
Time to turn back and descend the stair…

Did this mean to John what it meant to him? How could he know? Were there tests he could run? And if it didn't, then wasn't it more practical to walk away now before he was any more lost, to turn back and descend the stair?

Unanswered, the words of the poem circled in his head until at last he curled back up, hand resting soothingly on John's shoulder.

John woke in the morning and rolled over to just gaze at Sherlock in the dim light. The lovely, wild curls were fanned across the pillow. John was still naked, but Sherlock had insisted that he couldn't sleep without pajamas, so he was dressed; the vibrant purple silk setting off his pale skin, long fingers clutching at the sheet. This is mine, thought John. This is mine now. Well, no, Sherlock was still Sherlock, but this view, this exposure was for him alone. Sherlock opened his eyes and smiled.

It was supposed to be a chaste kiss, a good-morning kiss, a Happy Christmas-I'm happy to be here with you kiss, but Sherlock's mouth opened beneath his and suddenly it was an I'm desperate for you kiss, I want to taste you all over kiss, a don't stop for anything kiss. Morning breath and scratch of stubble be damned.

It was going to take too long to undo all those buttons. This time it was John shaking as he undid just enough to pull it off over Sherlock's head. Sherlock lifted his hips and John slid the pajama bottoms off and settled himself between Sherlock's legs, their cocks rubbing together.

John kissed him, a little more slowly, then moved his mouth along Sherlock's jaw bone, down the long neck, not really kissing, not really licking, lips skimming skin until he reached the collar bone, the narrow shoulder. He kissed then, mouth open, letting himself suck fiercely, knowing he was marking that pristine skin. Sherlock pushed him up so that they could fit together better, then it was Sherlock's mouth on his skin, his scared shoulder, across his chest.

John slid down, stopping Sherlock's kisses, to move his mouth over Sherlock's stomach, along the bottom of those sharply delineated ribs, tsking at how thin Sherlock was. He nuzzled into the concave space of Sherlock's hip. Now was the moment. The moment that would show if John could actually do this—move forward. He didn't really hesitate. It was too remarkable. Sherlock was too tremulous in his need. John ran his mouth over the head of Sherlock's penis. Sherlock shuddered and let out a cry. His hands touched John's head tentatively, then more firmly, fingers in blonde hair as John took more into his mouth, adjusted to the sensation, the taste, and reveled in it. This is wonderful, thought John. This, Sherlock coming undone, this was the most piercing thing he'd ever experienced.

He moved his mouth away and Sherlock whimpered, until John kissed his way back up to Sherlock's mouth. After a deep kiss he leaned in to whisper in Sherlock's ear, "I want to be inside you. Tell me that you want it."

"Yes, yes, I want it," Sherlock moaned.

"Shh…" John moved back down. He found the lube by the bed and slicked up his fingers. Taking Sherlock's penis back in his mouth, he delicately eased a finger inside, startled at the tightness, as Sherlock's body clenched around him. He worked like that for seemingly ages, sucking tenderly while he eased in two more fingers and moved them to touch the prostate causing Sherlock's hips to buck frantically.

"John, I can't…oh!"

And Sherlock was coming in his mouth, practically wailing as the orgasm hit him and he convulsed. John sat back, letting Sherlock calm down, but didn't remove his fingers, murmuring soothing nonsense until Sherlock seemed to collapse, all tension leaving his body except where he was tight around John's fingers. Only then did John slowly remove them while kissing Sherlock's stomach again. He wiped his fingers and fumbled for the condoms where they'd been dropped the night before.

"Do we really need…?" murmured Sherlock, "I was checked six months ago and I know that you are fastidious. Besides, you shouldn't have been doing what you just did without one."

"I never thought you'd be lecturing me on safe sex, but no, you're right. If you don't mind, I don't mind."

Sherlock's eyes were avid, "I just want you to do something. Soon!"

Tossing the box onto the floor John murmured, "Greedy," but he moved back into position between Sherlock's legs, slicked himself thoroughly and pushed in as he kissed Sherlock hard, pressing his tongue into Sherlock's mouth to catch Sherlock's gasp. Oh, God, it was tight. More intense than anything he'd ever experienced and added to it, the unbelievable thought, this is Sherlock, I'm making love to Sherlock and it's more lovely than I could ever have imagined.

"Is it ok? Sherlock, is it ok?"

"Better than ok. It's perfect, just perfect."

"Alright." John began to move, slowly at first, shallow thrusts until Sherlock was wrapping his legs around him to pull him closer and begging, "More, faster! God, John, don't torment me."

"If I…move faster…I'm going…"

"Yes, yes! Good."

And with only a few more powerful, deep thrusts he was coming, crying out as he came. His arms trembled and he collapsed heavily onto Sherlock's chest.

They lay like that for awhile. Sherlock tracing arcane patterns across John's back until John had to separate them with a regretful little sigh. He rolled over onto his side so that he could still stay in Sherlock's arms.

"It was ok, wasn't it? You don't hurt? You'll tell me if you do, right?"

"Are you my lover or my doctor?" Sherlock chided.

"Think of me as your lover who knows enough to worry."

"It's fine, John. You were wonderful and considerate, everything I could have hoped for. And more…

"Oh, Doctor," Sherlock added in a simpering tone, "I think I may need another injection."

John punched him in the side. "I didn't have you pegged as the dreadful sexual innuendo in bed type."

"You didn't have me pegged as the in bed type at all."

"True. Would you like me to peg you in bed?"

"Now who's making dreadful puns?"

Sherlock paused again before going on, tone more serious, "This is the best Christmas I've ever had, John."

"I'm sorry I didn't get you a present, after you got me that player."

"Do you really like it?"

"I love it. And the music is beautiful. You play beautifully when you want to. You are beautiful. Kiss me again."

And they did. Leisurely this time, soft and gentle.

"Oh, I did get you a present!" John cried suddenly, leaping from the bed to grab his phone from his jeans pocket. He proudly held out the picture to Sherlock.

"Oh, my dear God," gasped Sherlock laughing. "I have to say that for once, Mycroft has surprised me. But not as much as you have. We must print out hard copies as soon as possible—maybe the hotel has a business center. Mycroft could probably get it off of your phone or even a computer. Sometimes hard copies are the very best thing."

"But first, as your doctor and your lover and your friend, when was the last time you ate?"

Sherlock scrunched up his face for a moment, "Definitely Thursday night, with you."

"Right, breakfast. I wonder if anything is open."

"Room service, on Mycroft, and we don't have to get dressed."

"Ah, alright then. What shall we have?" John got the hotel menu and settled back into bed.

"Waffles? Do you like waffles? With strawberries?"

Sherlock sniffed, "Of course with strawberries. And whipped cream." He gave John a look that suggested that it was impossible for waffles to come without strawberries and whipped cream.

"What about eggs? You should have more than just carbs and sugar. They have Eggs Benedict."

"Hollandaise is disgusting. Dreadful texture."

"Really? Never had it. What about Omelet du Fromage?"

"Fine."

"Bacon?"

"Fine," Sherlock waved a hand as if the whole conversation had become boring.

John ordered everything with a pitcher of orange juice, a pitcher of coffee and a pot of tea, far too much, but he couldn't make a decision.

He stretched, disentangling himself from Sherlock's grasp, "I'm going to take a shower before the food comes."

Sherlock got up on his knees on the edge of the bed to kiss him, cradling John's head in his hands.

"You know," John laughed, "You're even taller this way."

"Does it bother you?" asked Sherlock, but he dropped back down to rest on his calves.

"No, it's just different. I mean, I'm used to being short, but not to barely coming up to my lover's shoulder. But then, all of this is different. Good, but different.

"And if you keep sitting there looking like that, all naked, I'm not going to get to my shower and the food person is going to find us in a very compromising position."

Sherlock smirked and then looked feral for a moment. "You know I never worry about social conventions."

"Yes, but I do, because it's courteous, something you're not. Put on a dressing gown and try not to shock them."

In the bathroom, John studied himself in the mirror. He had red marks across his chest, teeth marks, scratches. He couldn't remember being this passionate with any lover before. But then no other lover had been Sherlock Bloody Holmes. He did feel like a virgin, everything new again. So, he was gay then? No. Bi? No…Sherlocked? Good as any definition for now.

I have been mocked by Sherlock  
And even cold-cocked by Sherlock  
But now I am shocked by Sherlock  
And even my world is rocked by Sherlock.

My God, I'm going mad, he thought, AND going gay, making up show tunes.

He turned the water up high and hot and stood under it for awhile, letting his mind wander. Twenty-four hours before he'd been sitting in Angelo's cursing Sherlock's name. And five hours before that he'd been frantic to find a present for Sherlock. Now he was here in some expensive hotel in Edinburgh of all places, on Christmas Day, lethargic from some of the best sex he'd ever had, cock twitching still at the thought of Sherlock's long, sculptured body and full mouth, but even more at all that desire directed at him from a man he'd thought untouched by such mortal things.

As he was toweling his hair he heard the hotel staff knock and come in with the food.

John thought about what the room looked like, sheets pulled out and kicked into heaps at the foot of the bed, clothes left where they dropped, condom box on the floor and lube bottle on the bed. It seemed rather absurd to be bothered about it when he'd snogged Sherlock in front of at least a dozen cameras in Heathrow not to mention a crowd of people and everyone on the plane, but that was different than leaving signs of wild sex around. He hoped to God that Sherlock had put something on before he answered the door.

Eventually everyone would have to be told. Mycroft most assuredly knew. Matchmaker, Mrs. Hudson who'd been expecting this since day one, Sarah and assorted other girls notwithstanding. Harry.

He came out wrapped in a towel to find Sherlock sitting on the bed in one of his many silk dressing gowns holding a bottle of champagne.

"You ordered champagne?"

"No, Mycroft sent it"

"So he's not having me killed then?" He took the bottle from Sherlock and studied it. He didn't recognize the name or anything about it. It just felt expensive.

Really, really expensive.

"Sherlock, do you know how much this cost?"

"A lot, I should imagine. Mycroft does have good, if boring taste."

"Please tell me if I'm holding the price of a car or just one month's rent in my hands."

Sherlock looked at John's face, "Car…small car, used, not very new, barely working."

"Oh, God." John set the bottle back in the bucket reverently.

"I shouldn't have told you. Now you're thinking we should sell it or invest it or something equally daft. But I don't like champagne for breakfast."

"Well, we could make Mimosas, but that sounds so—" John realized he was going to say gay, which was rather Neanderthal of him even before his change in circumstances. He tried again, "Sorry I'm so plebian as to be overwhelmed by something that is clearly so mundane."

"I didn't really grow up like this, you know. Mycroft is much wealthier than the family."

"Will you tell me about 'the family?' Will I meet them?"

Sherlock looked withdrawn for a moment, "Perhaps. Later."

John started to pull his jeans on (without boxers—two hours of leaking pre-come into them did not make them very pleasant the day after, thank you).

"Don't put your jeans on. That's so uncomfortable. And hard to remove…" Sherlock had that feral look again.

"Yes, well, I don't want to sit around in only a towel."

"Wear mine."

"Then what will you wear?"

"There's another set in my bag."

"You brought two pairs of pajamas? How long were you planning to stay?" John asked as he rummaged in a case stuffed with far too many clothes to find a navy set identical to the purple ones that Sherlock had worn.

"A few days."

"And you need two pairs of pajamas, silk pajamas, and a dressing gown? Speaking of, I've always wondered where you get your clothes budget."

John pulled on Sherlock's pajamas which, while fitting semi-well around, since Sherlock liked his pajamas baggy and John was actually pretty trim himself, were far too long in the legs and the sleeves. He rolled up the sleeves but couldn't figure out how to hold up the bottoms as they simply slid down again when he rolled them up.

"Trust fund," said Sherlock kneeling at John's feet to roll the pants up in a sort of pegged way, as one might roll pants to ride a bicycle. The position revealed far too much of Sherlock's leg and John hoped that Sherlock hadn't had to kneel in front of the hotel staff.

"You spend your trust fund money on clothes but not on rent for your own flat? I can't believe that your parents set up a trust fund solely to keep you in quality clothes."

"Actually it's a trust fund that Mycroft set up. I won a bet and now I buy my clothes out of it. I find it amusing to spend as much money as possible, although sometimes I just can't be bothered. Going to the tailors, picking out fabrics, things like that. Boring. Not worth it even to spite him."

"How much do you usually spend per year?" John moved over to the food trolley to explore the options.

"Oh, I don't know. About 5,000 pounds I should think."

John almost dropped the silver lid he was holding. "You spend. Five THOUSAND pounds. On clothes. Per YEAR? I doubt that everything I own would come to 5,000 pounds."

"Oh, I'm quite sure of that. Perhaps we'll do something about that this year."


	2. On Your Mouth I Will Tell It Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They ate, picnic style, on the bed with the food cart next to them. It was too much food, but Sherlock downed his share, and John was happy. Maybe sex made Sherlock hungry.

They ate, picnic style, on the bed with the food cart next to them. It was too much food, but Sherlock downed his share, and John was happy. Maybe sex made Sherlock hungry.

Afterwards, John put the plates back on the cart and Sherlock fell back with his head at the foot of the bed and his feet next to John's head.

"Sherlock," John murmured, running a finger along Sherlock's calf, "what did you do yesterday? Why did you invite me to lunch and then stand me up?"

Sherlock gazed at the ceiling and then shut his eyes. "I stood across the street from Angelo's watching you be seated, wanting to just go in and say, 'When I said I was married to my work that first night…' but I was too scared. Scared of what you'd do. What I might say. So I texted you that I couldn't come.

"Mainly I just wandered. I saw my network and gave them money. I followed you sometimes. I knew where you'd go."

Sherlock curled up resting on his elbows, "One thing I don't know is who you visited in the Veterans' Hospital."

"An old friend. He's was brain damaged in Afghanistan. I go once a month on Fridays. It just happened to be Christmas Eve."

"I'm sorry."

"There're a lot of people I should visit, but I don't."

"You do a lot, John. Never doubt that you are a good man."

John's mouth quirked a little at that.

"What?"

"Lestrade says that someday you could be a good man."

Sherlock flopped back, "Lestrade is an idiot."

"No, he isn't. What about dinner. What happened then?"

"I really was detained by Mycroft, but I should have texted so you weren't just sitting there. Sorry about that."

"Two sorrys in a row, eating. It is a red letter day!"

"The fact we had sex doesn't come into it, I suppose?"

"Oh, sex always _comes_ into it."

"Bastard."

John pinched Sherlock's calf back for good measure earning a yelp of protest that was unexpectedly satisfying.

"Are you going out today, to look for clues?"

"You've been watching too much American television. I don't look for clues. I observe and draw conclusions from the evidence."

"Yeah, right. So are you?"

"No. It's Christmas."

"Then why on earth did you need to catch the last plane up here last night?"

Sherlock paused again, that slightly insecure look, a flickering of eyes from one thing to another.

"Did you ever want something so badly as a child for Christmas, and you knew that you weren't going to get it, but you kept hoping anyway, just in case? I could almost bear it, you know, every other day of the year. To know you were upstairs, asleep in your bed or hear you in the morning moving about in the loo and think about you with your shirt off, shaving, brushing your teeth, and to resist barging in and simply grabbing you, even knowing or believing that you would run out the door in a panic.

"I just couldn't bear it on Christmas. Watching you open presents. Worrying that you wouldn't like what I'd gotten you, or it said too much. Thinking you might go out with mates or a new girl. And knowing that I would never get what I really wanted."

John sat up and pulled Sherlock up for a deep kiss. "Well, there is a red letter day. Sherlock Holmes got something wrong."

"I, am going to have a bath," said Sherlock huffily, pushing John away. He stalked off to the bathroom with all of his usual drama, casting off the dressing gown as he went, leaving John staring at his naked backside, a very nice view.

Sherlock filled the tub with hot water, and slid in, displacing water over the side, Archimedes Principle, water displaced equaling my volume, he thought. Plus John's come, he giggled a little hysterically, which would add far too little volume to be registered on all but the most sensitive scale, less than the volume of a meal or even a glass of water. He speculated for a moment whether displacement in water would be useful in studying bodies. There was a little sting there, and some of his muscles ached from strange new positions. He turned off the taps with his toes and stared at them between his knees at the foot of the tub. This is good, really good, he thought. That was the best his vocabulary could come up with? But perhaps, in this, that was enough.

After about a half an hour there was silence in the bathroom. John got a little worried, knocked and went in.

Sherlock lay in the bath, long legs bent, water up to just under his nose. He slid up enough to say, "You can use the toilet if you need to."

"What? No."

"John, you had your cock inside me this morning. I don't think we need to stand on false modesty here."

"Yes, but there are some things one keeps private. But then you've never understood that idea, have you. What's that noi— are you blowing bubbles?"

Sherlock had slipped back down in the water, "Bbbblllllessss."

"Do you also make farting noises and squirt water with your hands? Remind me never to go swimming—"

They stared at each other. They had talked about it, and they hadn't talked about it. And now everything was different.

Sherlock pulled his eyes away first. "Later, John. Not now, not while I'm in the bath."

"But we will talk about it."

"If we must."

"I think we have to. Do you want me to wash your back? "

Sherlock nodded, sat up and leaned forward. John knelt beside the tub, took the flannel and soap and ran his hands across Sherlock's back.

"God, I really scratched you, didn't I? I'm sorry."

'I didn't tell you to stop did I? You're marked as mine as well." He rested his head along the side of the tub reaching out to stroke John's side as John squeezed water from the flannel onto his back.

Sherlock pulled John's hand between his legs to his stiffening cock.

"No, I am not getting into that tub with you. No matter what you do. It's much too tiny for both of us."

"But neither of us is fat, and you're small!" Sherlock pouted.

"And you are a gangly giraffe! I am not bashing my knees.

"I will wait for you on the bed." John leant in and kissed Sherlock again. God, if he stayed he really was going to end up in that tub.

John stripped and lay on the bed, idly caressing himself. He heard the bath drain and expected Sherlock to come out. The door opened, but instead of Sherlock coming out, he heard the basin being filled. What the…he went to the door to see Sherlock lathering his face and preparing to shave.

"Why are you shaving?"

"I like to be clean shaven."

"I mean why are you shaving NOW?" John realized that he sounded almost petulant.

Sherlock gave him one the patented 'are you an idiot' looks—nothing changed there—and said, "It's better to do it when your skin is soft."

Fine, if Sherlock was going to be deliberately incalcitrant, then John could play that game as well. He walked into the bathroom stark naked and hard and hoped up on the counter.

"Are you really going to watch me shave? Is this an all-the-time thing, or once to see how it's done."

"I know how it's done, thank you. I'm just watching because I've never seen someone with such sharp cheekbones shave."

"I don't shave my cheekbones."

"Do you even need to shave at all?"

"Yes. Look, John, I am a grown man. I'm not some ethereal, androgynous creature above the daily annoyances of being human."

"Got that—not androgynous—from all of the gay sex we were having. I meant, you twat, that I know you can grow a moustache, but it didn't really seem like you had that much stubble.

"I can grow a perfectly reasonable beard if I need to."

"Do you want me to shave?"

"If you like. I don't mind it."

"Well, shove over then."

"Right now?"

"Why not? I've shaved next to blokes in the army all the time."

"Yes, but…"

John ignored him, lathered up his own chin and shaved with the cheap razors he'd bought. It was a new experience, and yet it seemed familiar somehow, as if they had always done this, shaving next to each other, both of them shirtless. This is my life now, John mused, being domestic with Sherlock, as if we weren't already living in each other's pockets. Only now there would be nakedness and intimacy and sex. Apparently lots and lots of sex.

Sherlock wiped his face and turned to watch John finish. He really is amazing, he reflected. He takes everything in his stride—me, this, Mycroft…Moriarty.

"I think I was promised sex," he said, quirking a smile.

"I wasn't the one who decided he needed to shave in order to—oh!"

Sherlock had dropped to his knees and gusted a breath across John's cock. John laughed, "You know, there is a perfectly good bed just a few meters away..." But when one of the cleverest men in Britain, who has quite rapidly and unexpectedly become your lover, is kneeling on the floor of a hotel bathroom, dressed only in a towel, rubbing his newly smooth, very soft cheek along your thigh, saying stop ceases to be a viable option.

And when his remarkably lovely lips wrap around the head of your very hard cock, while he does all the things that you most enjoy (which he's figured out, because he's Sherlock Holmes), such as gripping the base and stroking rapidly but keeping a leisurely pace with his mouth, saying anything beyond, "Oh, God," and "Sherlock," soon becomes impossible. In fact, in a matter of minutes the ability to articulate actual words eluded him as he came with something close to a shriek when Sherlock did something with his teeth. And then Sherlock smirked up at him and licked his lips.

"Much better than Hollandaise Sauce." Sherlock rocked back on his calves and sprang up to kiss John forcefully, taking full advantage of his height for the first time since this had all begun. "Take me to bed, John," he whispered in John's ear and it was more of a command than a come on.

They stumbled out of the bathroom and John found himself pushed backwards onto the bed, with Sherlock crawling over him, a predatory look in his eyes.

"Lube," Sherlock demanded.

John passed it to him and dammit, Sherlock had him completely hard again in just a few quick strokes of his slick hand. John didn't think he would come again or even could come again, but Sherlock didn't seem to care as he was positioning himself on John's cock and there was that mind-boggling tightness again.

Totally in control, Sherlock set the rhythm. It was fierce, unrelenting and insistent. If Sherlock had looked delirious and abandoned when they'd made love before, he looked possessed now, completely consumed with pleasure. He sat up on John's hips, head thrown back, eyes shut. His skin gleamed with sweat in moments. John could even see a drip running down his cheek or maybe that was just some water from his wet hair. Either way Sherlock didn't even seem to notice to wipe it away. John watched the muscles of Sherlock's thighs as he slid himself up and down.

And the sounds that he was making: a slurring of johnjohnjohn, jumbled words and sounds were so extraordinary coming from Sherlock's mouth that John almost lost himself in just appreciating it.

Sherlock suddenly leant forward, dotting John's face in a scattershot flutter of kisses, gasping, "John, I need to be inside you. I need to be that close to you. Will you let me? Say you'll let me. I'll do whatever you ask, please, John, oh, God, John."

"Yes, Sherlock, anything, anything you need."

Sherlock sat back still holding John's cock inside himself, smeared his fingers and reached behind to run slick fingers over John's balls and down. He slid one finger in working frantically and a little roughly and then another. John felt a tiny burn, but it was no more than a rug burn and the sensation, the pressure, the feeling of being opened was remarkable and new.

Sherlock was frenzied now. He slicked his cock and lifted himself off, scrambled to swing his legs under himself so that he was kneeling between John's legs. He bit his bottom lip so hard John was surprised that it didn't bleed and slid in. John could tell that Sherlock was using all of the little will-power he still had to hold back and not simply thrust.

This is what it feels like for women, John thought. No wonder sex is usually more personal for them; needing there to be emotion. You're letting someone inside, physically inside your body. You're trusting someone to not hurt you, to treat this gift with the reverence it deserves. It was a startling revelation, even more so because he had never thought he would experience the feeling.

Sherlock seemed beyond all control now. His eyes were closed, mouth hanging slack as he thrust wildly, erratically and with a strangled scream, came.

He collapsed over John, breathing heavily into John's shoulder and neck, wet hair rubbing against John's cheek. John just held him tenderly, didn't move his hands up and down, knowing that any movement would be too much at that moment.

At last Sherlock took a great gulp of air and said, "Thank you," into John's ear. Only then did John move his hands soothingly along Sherlock's back, running his knuckles up and down the spine in a small massage. Sherlock seemed on the verge of crying.

"It's alright. I've got you, my love, I've got you. It's alright. Are you…ok?"

Sherlock sat up and slid free gingerly. John winced but it wasn't nearly as bad as he'd feared. Sherlock crumpled over, facing away from John, seemingly shattered.

John pressed himself against Sherlock's back, "Sherlock? Are you alright? What's the matter?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that," murmured Sherlock almost sleepily.

"I'm fine. What about you? Why are you curled away?"

"You made it turn off."

"What? I made what turn off?"

"My mind. I wasn't observing. I wasn't watching from outside my own thoughts. I was just feeling. The feel of you inside me, the feel of you around me. I can't describe it because I wasn't analyzing it while it happened. That's never happened to me before. Even in the bathroom when I was down on my knees, I was thinking, storing information—oh, he likes that, that's what this tastes like, feels like, I'm doing this now and John's responding—but here there was nothing but sensation. It was…perfect, unbelievable, I don't know…I can't say it in words." Sherlock struggled within himself to figure out how to convey it. It was disturbing to not be able to describe something. To not be able to break it apart into its component pieces, but it was just a giant wave of feeling, emotions and physical reactions that tumbled over and over each other in a chaos that was caused by it being John.

"It's overwhelming. I feel…emotionally sensitive. I think I just need to sleep for a little while."

"Of course," John kissed Sherlock's shoulder. "I may go take a walk. Don't panic if I'm not here when you wake up." He pulled the sheets up around Sherlock's body and tucked him in.

"I never panic."

"Yes you do. Do you mind if I use your laptop to check my email or read? Why am I even asking—you don't."

"Of course, John. What's mine is yours."

"And what's mine has apparently always been yours. Password?"

"Yes, but it's very simple. Even you should be able to figure it out," came the drowsy reply.

"Um, thanks for that. But say that your boyfriend is not as clever as you, and would like to be able to use the laptop this afternoon and not spend twenty-four hours trying to break in…"

"All lower case: em, dee, double u, at symbol, five, zero, en."

It was only when John had scribbled it on a piece of hotel notepaper to remember that he understood—mdw50n.

In the end he didn't go out. He listened to the songs Sherlock had recorded for him and looked them up on the internet. He downloaded some music for himself—although his taste ran more to pop. He debated downloading the Christmas song. It was sort of their song. Nope, still annoying. Better to stick with Nessun Dorma as their song—that way Sherlock could play it for him again.

He checked his email, but first he skimmed Sherlock's which was still open. He felt guilty and then he didn't, and then he did again.

 **From: Elizabeth Hudson, .uk**   
**To: Sherlock Holmes, .uk**   
**Cc: John Watson, .uk**

 **Hello, Dear,**

 **I'm trusting that Doctor Watson caught up with you last night since he didn't come home.**

 **Look, I have my own computer and email account! I feel so modern. My niece and her husband got it for me for Christmas and helped me set it up. You're the second person I've sent a message to.**

 **Ask Doctor Watson if he would like me to send him any of his things, as I know he ran out of here without a single thing last night.**

 **Well, you two have a wonderful time and don't get into any trouble.**

 **(Oh, I do hope he's with you, this message would just be terrible if he isn't.)**

 **From: Withheld**   
**To: Sherlock Holmes, .uk**

 **Happy Christmas, Sherlock, and I know that it is shaping up to be a very happy one for you. I want you to know that I am sincerely glad. Please enjoy the champagne. I think you will find it a delicate Brut from a really excellent year that you will both enjoy. Thank you for taking this case, although I know your real reasons for escaping London. I do hope that you will continue with the case, even though that reason has now resolved itself.**

 **Now then, John, I know that you have something that you feel is significant. While I cannot say that I am pleased about your possession, I will trust in your discretion in this matter (and your enforcement of my brother's). We both know that there will be consequences for both of you (as well as myself, I must admit) if this item were to fall into the wrong hands. Have a very Happy Christmas.**

What the bloody hell, thought John. How on earth did Mycroft know that I would be reading Sherlock's email? No, scratch that. I don't want to know.

The rest of the entries were all about cases.

He checked his email, and found the usual debris.

For awhile he just watched Sherlock sleeping. He realized he'd watched Sherlock sleeping on the couch many times without thinking how odd it was to be studying your flatmate's face while he slept. It was usually a restless sleep, like watching a dog dream, sometimes Sherlock's hands would move or he would mumble angrily. Today he seemed to be sleeping peacefully, breath rising and falling gently, arm thrown over his eyes to block out the light.

Sherlock woke around three, so they watched the Queen's speech with Sherlock's head in John's lap. John slid his fingers through the curls, straightening them and then letting them fall back into their waves.

"I love you, Sherlock."

"I know."

At first John thought that that was all that he was going to get, but then Sherlock said, "I love you too."

"When did it start? When did you know that…you loved me? Mrs. Hudson said she thought it happened that first night after the pink lady."

"Before. When you lent me your phone."

"What?"

"The first time we met, in the lab at Bart's."

"Molly offers you the entire lab (and herself), Lestrade offers you cases, Mrs. Hudson offers you a cut rate on a flat and half of the restaurants in London offer you free food, but you're impressed because I offer you the use of my phone?"

"Well, I'm not likely to fall in love with Mrs. Hudson, Angelo or Lestrade…"

"Why not? He's quite good looking."

"Should I be jealous?"

"No, just noticing. You know, now that I'm gay."

"ANYWAY, Lestrade gives me cases because he needs me. Molly, well, I'm not exactly sure what Molly needs, but she wants something from me. You wanted nothing. You didn't even know if we would become flatmates, or even if I was the person Mike was bringing you to see. You clearly had trust issues and yet you just passed me your phone. I could have been sexting someone under your name."

"Or texting a serial killer."

"Or texting a serial killer, exactly. That kind of giving with nothing expected…it doesn't happen to me."

"It probably does, you just don't notice."

"I'm VERY observant."

"Not to people. Not to emotions. And it might happen more often if you didn't come sweeping in saying 'I'm Sherlock Holmes! I'm a bloody genius and you're an idiot.'"

"But why shouldn't I say it? It's true."

"Perhaps you should let them figure it out on their own. People don't really like to be told things like that."

"Why did you do it? Offer me your phone?"

"I…I don't really know."

"When did you fall in love with me?"

"I didn't know I was until last night when Mrs. Hudson, God bless her, pointed it out to me."

"You thought I was pretty from the first."

"I thought you were what—? "

"Pretty. You put it on your blog."

"I realize it's been nearly a year, and I don't have your memory, but I am quite certain that I did not say you were pretty on my blog."

"Let's check!" Sherlock leapt off the bed and ran to the laptop. He pulled up John's blog.

 **It's mad. I think he might be mad. He was certainly arrogant and really quite rude and he looks about 12 and he's clearly a bit public school and, yes, I definitely think he might be mad but he was also strangely likeable. He was charming. It really was all just a bit strange.**

"You see! There!" he cried, stabbing the screen.

"I said you looked 12! That doesn't translate into I thought you were pretty! I don't tend to think of 12 year old boys as pretty!"

"You said I was charming and likeable."

"Yes, but again that is not 'read as: thought he was hot and hope to get a leg over!'"

"You didn't say that Sarah was pretty."

"I also didn't say that she looked twelve. I said she was _great_ AND that you ruined our date."

"Well, most people don't think that I'm charming and likeable, so I think that's a declaration right there."

"You really are insufferable, aren't you? Alright, I thought you were amazing from the first, just not pretty."

"I am amazing (and pretty)."

"And so extraordinarily modest for all that." He bit Sherlock on the shoulder as he pushed him back to the bed.

"Ow! Is this sadism going to be an ongoing part of our relationship, because I'm going to have to do some re-evaluating if it is.

"Will you add it now?"

"What? That you're pretty? Look, can we get away from the word pretty here? I might say that you are handsome…"

"No, will you say that we're together now. You've been quite vehement about denying it in the past."

"That's because it wasn't true in the past. No, I don't think that I'll have any problem, well, depends on the people, and how demonstrative you want to be in public, but no. I'm here now. I have no problem saying that you and I are together, lovers, boyfriends (well, that one's a bit ridiculous), and lovers is a bit intimate, so…let's leave it as together. Going steady" John snickered.

"I am not a 12 year old _girl_. I didn't scribble your name in my notebook over and over with hearts around it."

"No, but you used it as your password."

"That's a very recent thing!"

"Unh-hunh. In fact—let me see your notebook!" There was a brief struggle as John attempted to get off the bed to get to Sherlock's notebook on the table, but they were too evenly matched and Sherlock had John pinned in a moment. John could have broken free, but it really didn't seem the time when they were both panting and he could feel Sherlock hard against his hip and Sherlock had that hungry look in his eyes again.

John flipped Sherlock onto his back, peeled off the dressing gown and gripped Sherlock's cock in his hand. "How far could I push you, I wonder, now that I know you're a nymphomaniac?"

"I believe the proper word would be satyriasis."

"Says the man with a raging hard-on who's rutting into his lover's hand." He leant in and kissed Sherlock while working his hand between them. Sherlock soon had his hand down John's pajama bottoms and then worked them down to keep them from being ruined as well. They rolled about for a few minutes, each trying to get the upper hand, while still gripping one another cocks, laughing and catching each other with ungainly kisses. It was half rough foreplay and half a wrestling match. And somewhere in there it was too much for John to be wrapped in long white arms and legs while nimble fingers were stroking him and a plush mouth was kissing and occasionally biting him, and he came over Sherlock's stomach, and with a few fierce strokes brought Sherlock to a groaning orgasm as well.

They collapsed back on the bed which was a crispy, sticky mess by now, just breathing heavily and giggling a bit.

"That's something I'm going to have to get used to."

"What?"

"Struggling for dominance."

"Really? I'd have thought that some women would want to be dominant at least part of the time."

"Yes, but none of them could flip me and pin me."

"Not even soldiers?"

"A few came close. But, never with quite the fight you gave me. When I first saw you, I'd have never guessed you were as strong as you are."

"Yes, but you're not very observant."

"I am far more observant than you give me credit for, I'll have you know! I am an army doctor after all—judging people's fitness is part of my training."

"Alright, John, tell me, as a Doctor, what you can deduce from my body."

"I may not be a sadist, but I'm also not so much of a masochist as to invite you to tell me where I'm wrong."

"I won't do that. I'll…try not to that again in future. Go ahead."

John sat up and started working his way up Sherlock's naked body, touching points along the way, "Well, you wear pointed shoes, and you shouldn't because you're getting bunions. A variety of old scars. You skinned your knees a lot as a child, sometimes on gravel.

"You have well defined muscles despite your thinness which I cannot figure out, because I've never seen you exercise except when running after criminals. Do you do yoga in your room at night?

"You have horizontal stretch marks on your knees and hips and since I cannot imagine that you've ever been fat, I suspect that you had a very fast growth spurt. Probably growing six to eight inches in less than a year.

"So you went from being small for your age to one of the tallest in your class. That must have been painful in more ways than one."

"Your cock is above average in length, but average in girth."

Sherlock grinned at that.

"You have calluses on the pads of your fingers from the violin, but also one on the side of your middle finger, so you've done a lot of handwriting holding the pen too tightly.

"You're covered in love bites which means that you have a very passionate lover."

"Oh, does it?"

"Yes. I think that I've done well with your body. Especially since, despite my lesser intellect, I have made you scream three times today."

Sherlock batted his lashes and simpered, "Will you make me scream again?"

"Don't keep doing that."

"A little sensitive, John?" Sherlock asked, but his voice had returned to its normal baritone.

"No, homosexuals can be as stereotypical as they want to be or not, but I know that you aren't that…person. And I also know that you can put on a persona like other people put on hats, so I never want you to be anything but yourself with me.

"But I fully intend to make you scream again and moan and gasp, just after we eat and watch Doctor Who."


	3. On Your Mouth I Will Tell It Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They ordered room service again. Haddock and chips—decadently greasy. Well, they were in Scotland after all.

They ordered room service again. Haddock and chips—decadently greasy. Well, they were in Scotland after all.

While they were waiting for the food and for Doctor Who to start John asked, "Tell me about the music you put on the player. I looked it up. You like opera?"

"I love opera. Although Puccini is rather opera-lite."

"It's always been…a bit incomprehensible to me."

"Philistine."

"Upper-class twit of the year," John teased.

"I looked at the lyrics of the song. Were they significant or was it just the music?"

"No, it's an aria. The singer has a secret and while the object of his love has resisted him, he knows that if he can just kiss her, then she will fall in love with him."

Sherlock shut his eyes and recited:

 _"…in your cold room,_   
_watch the stars,_   
_that tremble with love and with hope._   
_But my secret is hidden within me…_

 _…On your mouth I will tell it when the light shines._   
_And my kiss will dissolve the silence that makes you mine!"_

"So, significant, then?" whispered John.

"Yes."

They settled in to watch the Doctor Who Christmas Special with Sherlock's back sprawled against John's chest, what was left of the chips at hand.

"Wait! Did he just deduce something? Something from the chairs and the pictures? Those are my methods! Who wrote this? He stole that! Do you think he knows who I am? Can I sue him?"

"Calm down. It's a work of fiction, Sherlock. He may have heard of you—people do follow your website, but think of it as a tribute, not a steal. Anyway, the Doctor has always been a lot like you."

"I don't travel through space and time in a blue police box that's bigger on the inside."

"No…though that would be interesting. The Doctor is manic and really clever and sometimes off putting, but with a certain charm…"

Sherlock's bottom lip came out in a pout.

"And sometimes he's very lonely…" finished John, kissing Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock grumbled but continued watching.

"So obvious!" he waved his hands at the screen. "She's his true love and she's only got 8 days to live and they're wasting them on roaming earth with the Doctor. Just look! The sister isn't nearly old enough for her to have been frozen for all that time. Anyway I thought he wasn't supposed to be able to do that—go back and alter someone's timeline—"

"Alright, first—yes, the plot is obvious and we're supposed to know it. It's called dramatic irony.

"Second, I think the end will still be surprising and third, as I think I have mentioned, it's FICTION!"

They watched to the end and John actually felt a little moved, as he had his true love in his arms, but Sherlock rather ruined it by saying, "Ending with snow…pft…don't they do that every year?"

John moaned and laughed all at once. I can see that romance is still not one of your strengths."

"I don't quite see us as the gaze into each other's eyes and whisper sweet nothings types, do you? Anyway, if I swooned into your arms, I'd knock you over."

"I didn't say a romance _novel_ , Git." John tickled Sherlock's sides and it quickly threatened to turn into another round, when John said, "God, you are so thin. Do you swim?" It was casually said, but the moment it was out of his mouth, John could feel them both tense.

"I used to. You?"

"Life guard certification for three years in my teens."

"Of course."

"Why of course?"

"Because you take care of people, John. It's in your nature. I knew you must have by the way you dragged me from the pool."

"We should talk about that."

"We have talked about it."

"That was before. Before this."

"Does this make a difference?'

"It does to me."

"Do you know what I want?"

"Don't change the subject."

"I'm not. I want to take you to the seaside in the summer. Or the south of France. It's beautiful there and the sun is so bright. I want to lie on a beach with you and swim in the ocean or the sea and forget about dark swimming pools."

This means it's going forward, thought John, not that he'd really doubted it, but it was good to hear it from Sherlock's mouth. It's something, maybe long term, maybe forever. A lyric from a song he'd downloaded came back to him as he pictured them—on white sands, splashing and swimming, just lying on the beach with Sherlock in his arms like this.

 _I think about us lying_   
_Lying on a beach somewhere._   
_I think about us diving_   
_Diving off a rock, into another moment._

Diving into another moment. A moment beyond this one, and beyond that moment eight months previous when he dragged Sherlock's body that had seemed so limp, to the far side of the pool.

"You know it's not that easy. Not for me, and probably even less for you."

"No, it's not that easy. I wish it were. When you appeared in the pool I thought I was an idiot and I knew I had a heart because it was breaking and then when I realized the truth, I knew I was an even bigger idiot and my heart broke in a different way. I knew that he and I had to die, but I'd have done anything, gone anywhere with him, given him anything to have saved you. I just kept thinking how we would die and you'd never know what you meant to me."

"But you didn't tell me afterwards either. And you didn't have to die."

"I tried to tell you. Or to show you."

"Really? I didn't notice."

"Because you're an idiot."

"Ah…and so are you apparently, because you obviously didn't see how I felt about you, even though Mrs. Hudson did. And, now that I think about some conversations I had yesterday, so did a number of people.

"You still didn't have to die. Not alone, not like that. You needed to tell me where you were going. I needed to be there behind you."

"I knew you'd want to be there and I couldn't risk that. You follow me, John. You shouldn't follow me. I'll always lead you into danger."

John sat up, forcing Sherlock to sit up as well. "Well, it's a little late for that, don't you think?"

"John…I don't want you to follow me anymore."

"Is that why you kept me from some of the bigger cases for a few months? Like the one that took you to Germany, and the one where you went north for two weeks and I didn't even know where."

"Yes, plus you were working. I thought I'd disrupted your life enough as it was."

"How extraordinarily kind of you. You can't stop me. I'm not going to sit at Baker Street like some wife on the home-front waiting for the telegram. And don't say that they don't send telegrams anymore, because you know full well what I mean! It'll be Greg coming to my door or calling me and saying, 'we've lost him, John, I'm so sorry.' I'll be damned if I let you be noble—it's too late for you to start," John's voice was steadily rising and they were facing each other now.

"Without any of this, I'd still have shot the cabbie and I'd still have died for you and I fully intend to keep running around London with you, helping you, protecting you and saving you as necessary! And you DON'T get to tell me that I can't! That's not how this works!"

"What if I tell you that you are actually a hindrance to my work?" Sherlock's voice was preternaturally calm, in contrast to John's obvious agitation.

"I won't believe you."

"But it's true. If I'm wondering where you are, or if you're safe, then I'm not really focussed."

"I could be hit by a bus tomorrow. Does that throw your focus?"

"The odds of that are one in two million. If you go chasing after criminals with me, the odds are somewhat worse."

"You don't get to leave me out of it and you don't get to keep secrets from me!"

"I don't believe that the definition of a relationship is that one partner gets to tell the other what to do. Or command it. And I have many secrets that you will never know."

"What? Why would you keep things from me? Especially now? You know everything about me—everything. Possibly more than I know about myself and you expect me to just be happy that you only share some of yourself with me?

"A relationship is together! Things are decided and negotiated _together_ , not by the one who thinks he's the smartest.

"We are not having this conversation now."

"If not now, then when, Sherlock, when? And if not now, then over and over until it destroys us?"

" _I_ am not having this conversation now." Sherlock got up, grabbed his laptop and went into the bathroom. Once inside he slumped against the door. This is why one didn't care. This is why one certainly did not let oneself fall in love.

John knocked at the door. John called to him. John pleaded, begged, whispered. And finally moved away.

Sherlock heard the telly get louder. He spread towels in the bath and curled up in it. He tried to focus on research for the case—local MP found dead in the a side of town in which he had no business being, after being dropped at his own front door by the driver, and even seen entering. But his normally focussed brain was elsewhere, in the next room and also in a swimming pool with fire and debris falling.

He must have drifted off in the cramped and cold bath tub that smelled of tile and water but also of the soap John had used to shower and shaving cream and other things that were good, because when he woke the telly was off and John was knocking at the door again. His feet were numb and tingly at the same time.

"Sherlock?" John's voice was tight.

Sherlock coughed slightly and managed a fairly level tone, "Do you need the bathroom?"

"Well, yes, but mainly I want—"

"I told you no."

"Yes. Yes, you did."

"Nothing has changed," his voice wavered slightly, "please, John, respect my wishes in this."

"Fine," John's voice was strained with anger again.

Sherlock opened the door and he and John were face to face, well face to hair and face to neck. John was…

Drunk.

"I drank the champagne," John said in a voice that would have seemed almost sober to anyone who wasn't Sherlock Holmes, but anybody could have smelled it on his breath. "It seemed stupid to let it go to waste. It was very good."

They slipped past each other, awkwardly, trying not to touch. It seemed so tragic when for most of the day they had been doing everything in their power _to_ touch one another.

There was a moment, just an instant, when their eyes met, and it could have all stopped, but John looked away and the moment was lost.

Sherlock plugged his laptop back in and started working at the table, scrolling through pages of the politician's actions and votes and taking quick notes.

John emerged, slightly shamefacedly. "Let's go to bed, Sherlock. Just to sleep. Maybe…maybe we can talk more at another time. It will all look different in the morning."

"I'm not tired, John. You know I don't sleep very much as a general rule, and I've slept a great deal today. If the light will bother you I can go back in the bathroom."

"No, no. Don't…put yourself out. I'll be fine."

It could have been any evening at Baker Street. As if none of the day had happened, and they were still just flatmates.

John got into bed with his back to Sherlock. For a very long time his body was rigid. Sherlock tried to keep his eyes on the computer, but they kept drifting back to the stiff line of John's shoulders. He finally saw John's body soften into sleep. Sherlock watched as the spasms he'd noticed the night before began again. And again, he had no idea if they were nightmares or merely restless muscles.

He watched John for over an hour. Watched until John rolled over in his sleep so that he was on his back. It made him feel…

What exactly? Love and anger in equal measure? Desperation, fear. Things that frustrated him by slipping past without definition. Without considering the foolishness of his actions he ran and jumped onto the bed to flail, stupidly, bruisingly at John's chest.

"I can't lose you John! Do you understand that? Can you get it through your tiny little brain that it will KILL me to lose you?"

Shocked awake, John caught Sherlock's hands and pushed him back down on the bed. John crushed his mouth on Sherlock's. It was hard and messy and painful. John ripped at Sherlock's pajama top, popping buttons and stripping him to the waist. Sherlock struggled, but John was having none of it this time. Roughly, he rolled Sherlock over and pulled him up onto his knees so he was hunched over, bum inelegantly in the air. Then he pushed Sherlock's pajama bottoms down to his knees.

"John, wait—"

"Shut-up. You don't want to talk, don't talk," and he prepped Sherlock roughly and shoved himself in. Thrusting, he reached beneath them to grip Sherlock's nearly limp cock and stroke with hard jerks that were more pain than pleasure.

This was sex as a skirmish, a fight for alpha position. John bit at Sherlock's back and what he could reach of his neck. Despite his reluctance, Sherlock reached back to grip John's hip and pull him in harder and faster as if he hoped to bring it to conclusion sooner.

Sherlock felt his orgasm build. It was being wrenched from him by John's force. As he came he moaned into the pillow gasping, "John, please, I'm yours, yours, please, yours," like a mantra, an orison to some God, perhaps John himself.

The sound seemed to wake John up. He froze, mouth against Sherlock's shoulder blade.

This wasn't him. He'd always kept that cardinal rule: one does not fuck in the middle of a fight because one or both of you will be hurt. The argument you cannot seem to win with words will be carried into action, as if you can put yourself in the right by force alone. He was drunk and he was angry and he had hurt Sherlock. He was no better than Harry, coming home drunk and bitter.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please, I'm sorry."

"If you're not going to finish, could you get off of me," Sherlock said, voice completely flat, "I need to go to the bathroom."

John pulled out as gently as he could. Sherlock rolled off of the bed at once, pulling his pajama bottoms up and holding them at his waist as he walked to the loo. Once inside, he dropped the pants to wipe away the slickness between his legs and where he had splattered a little come on his own stomach. Then he looked at himself in the mirror. The corner of his mouth was torn and painful. His chest and hips bore red scratch marks. He splashed water in his face. For a few minutes he simply sat on the toilet lid, feeling numb, and thought about going to sleep in the bathroom. But it was cold. He shouldn't be the one to give up the bed.

Back in the main room he retrieved his pajama top. John sat in silence on the bed. Most of the buttons were gone, some of them torn through the fabric. Both sets had been a Christmas present from Mummy. He tossed the top back onto the floor and crawled into bed and rolled to his side, back to John.

"Sherlock— do you want my pajama top? I mean yours, I mean, the one I'm wearing? I don't want you to be cold."

"I'm fine."

"I am so, so sorry. Did I— did I hurt you…badly."

"Not at all. I came. Isn't that the definition of a satisfactory sexual encounter?"

"Please, Sherlock. Look at me. Let me—"

"Shut-up, John. I'm bored with your incessant talking."

He heard John lie down. Heard him sigh, and possibly even smother a sob. For well over an hour they both lay there, unsleeping. Finally Sherlock felt the mattress shift as John's body sank back into it when he stopped holding himself stiffly. He felt the twitches begin again and heard John's snores. He didn't sleep until dawn began to light the room.

He woke when he felt John's hand on his shoulder.

John had woken from dreams that wove between Afghanistan and swimming pools and dark doorways where he'd stood beside Sherlock, gun in hand, on so many nights in the past year. He could see that Sherlock hadn't moved and knew he deserved nothing, but he just wanted to touch Sherlock one more time.

"Sherlock, please. I can't blame you if you can't forgive me. But I just want to say, before we, before this is over, that I love you. I love you so much I can't describe…or put into words…or even comprehend. This is going to sound stupid, but it's as if there was a box in my heart that I thought contained my love for you as a friend, but when I realized, when I saw…that you might love me like this I realized that I loved you with all of my heart and not just that little part.

"And now we've lost…I've ruined even that. Please, just tell me that you're ok and I'll go, back to London and I'll pack my things." Despite his words John couldn't resist running his hand along the back of Sherlock's neck in a soothing gesture, rubbing in small circles along the cervical vertebrae, and bit by bit he felt Sherlock's shoulders relax the tiniest amount. And began to hope.

"Sherlock? Do you mind if I hold you."

"No, but don't…"

"I won't! I just want to comfort you." John slipped closer, pressed his chest against Sherlock's cold, bare back and placed his hand very lightly on Sherlock's upper arm.

"Did it occur to you that I can't lose you either?" he whispered. "That if I lost you and there was ANY chance that my being with you would have helped…that I would never recover.

"I love you, damn it. I love you and I'll probably follow you even if you throw me out right now."

"You wouldn't be able to. You couldn't possibly follow me if I didn't want you to."

"It wouldn't stop me from trying. Did it ever occur to you that maybe, just maybe _if_ we're together—if I'm not a half a mile back, if you let me into your plans for once—that neither one of us needs to die?"

"I'm _protecting_ you, John! Why won't you let me protect you? I don't want you involved in what I do."

John took the chance. He kissed Sherlock's neck and upper back which he knew Sherlock liked , ran his hand down Sherlock's arm, feeling Sherlock press back into him very slightly, still taut, but beginning to yield.

"I have always been involved in what you do. You brought me along. You wanted my help then, and I'd like to think I've been some help to you since. I'd like to point out that you'd be dead a couple of times over without me. I'm not the one who needs protecting."

"I didn't end up covered in semtex."

"No, but we both ended up with snipers' guns trained on us. He'd have gotten you there with or without me. Hell, you were going there on your own."

"That's my point! I was going to him. He didn't need to take you but he did because he knew it would weaken me."

"Shh, he's not here now."

"He's always here. He's always in my head, taunting me, reminding me that I failed."

"You didn't fail."

"I failed you."

"No, you didn't. I'd have left then. I could have left anytime. I am a grown man, and a perfectly capable one. It's my choice and my choice is to be with you. I need you, and I think that maybe you need me. May I kiss you now?" John propped himself up on his elbow.

Sherlock shifted onto his back looking up at John. His eyes were wide and sad, body still tense, but he nodded the tiniest bit and John leaned in, like the first time, to press his lips against Sherlock's mouth, just a tender press of lips without the suggestion of anything else. They stayed like that for some time. Just lips together, parting, coming back, until the smallest hitch in Sherlock's breath, a sigh in John's, signified something else.

"John, I want, but I don't know if…"

"I know. I won't hurt you. I promise."

John stripped and eased Sherlock's pajama bottoms off. He straddled Sherlock's hips and sat up, just looking down at Sherlock's face, then he ran a finger along Sherlock's jawbone and turned his hand to cup Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock closed his eyes and turned his head into John's hand.

John continued to simply caress Sherlock's face soothingly. He smoothed the worry lines on the pale forehead, brushed back the dark fringe and swept away a loose hair. Sherlock opened his eyes and watched him.

"I love your face. It's amazing to watch. It's a mask that you project, and yet you run through a thousand expressions a minute. I love the way your nose turns up and the way you get a little wrinkle at the top when you're really laughing—or when you sniff with disdain. I love the shape of your ears. They're like no one else's. I've always wanted to touch your hair, and it's as thick and soft as I imagined. I love your jaw and your strong chin, and how sometimes you pull it back when you're cross, so that your profile is funny." He leant in to kiss Sherlock's mouth sweetly.

"I think you can guess how I feel about your mouth." He leaned in to graze his lips down Sherlock's neck, "and your neck. It will be hard when we go back to London to watch you with other people. To see them look at your throat and the little bit of smooth chest that you always show and know that they want you too."

John planed his hands along Sherlock's arms and across his chest. "It's amazing to me how defined your muscles are. How beautiful you are."

"I love your hands. They're wonderful. Long and beautiful. They should be a woman's hands, but they're not. They're strong and dextrous.

"But most of all, I love your eyes. I love how they pierce through everything and change colours in different lights and with your different emotions. And how they narrow in thought, or pop open wide when you've solved it. Or when you come. You are vibrant when you come."

He was startled at himself. He wasn't usually so talkative, so sappy. He'd been with women who wanted him to do that—to describe why he loved them—and he'd tried, but the words poured out of him with Sherlock.

John slid his hands down to stroke Sherlock's penis, easing it to hardness. When Sherlock was fully erect, he slicked it up and carefully lowered himself onto it. Sherlock arched up and fell back, forcing John onto him fully.

How amazing this is, thought John. If anyone had asked him forty-eight hours earlier if he would want this, want to be rolling his hips gently with his lover deep inside him, he'd have gaped at them like they had three heads. And if they'd suggested that he would want Sherlock deep inside him, he would have stammered and blushed, because it would have triggered something that he'd hidden away, even from himself.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was moving his hands along John's thighs where they gripped his waist, up over John's hips, pausing to rest them there for a moment, enjoying the sensation of John moving against him. Then he slid them up to caress John's chest as carefully as John had explored his. He traced scars with his fingers, running them over the hypertrophic scar on the shoulder with care. John watched Sherlock's fingers as they moved across him, shutting his eyes when Sherlock reached the scar.

It was slow and sensual. John rocking against Sherlock's hips. Sherlock running his hands along John's penis, keeping him hard but nowhere near coming. They would pull together to kiss sometimes lightly and sometimes hungrily, and then John would sit back to just study Sherlock's face again, to trace it with his fingers.

"Do you forgive me? I need to know that you forgive me."

"I forgive you," Sherlock replied. But a corner of his mind whispered, but I won't forget.

"Do you trust me?"

"I trust you."

And then it began to build. John closed around Sherlock's hand to tighten it, to bring his orgasm closer and closer, until he came over both their hands.

Sherlock began to thrust up into him in earnest and despite the intensity, John stayed upright to watch Sherlock's face as the ivory skin flushed pink across the sternum and up across Sherlock's face, as Sherlock bit his lip and rolled his head from side to side, eyes squnched tight in concentration. Sherlock was making breathy moans that were getting faster and faster, and John could feel Sherlock's cock getting harder and thicker until Sherlock arched, head thrown back, mouth is a perfect circle as he cried out.

They rested for awhile, John resting against Sherlock's chest as the long fingers ran through his hair and down his back.

At last Sherlock asked, "What time is it?"

John propped himself up slightly to look over at the clock, "Half past ten."

"You should go out early and buy your clothes before the shops are packed."

"Aren't you going to come with me?"

"I need to get started on the case. I'll meet you back here for lunch and we can go out again later."

They kissed one more time and John went off to take his shower.

Sherlock put his pajama bottoms back on and his dressing gown and went back to his research with a far lighter heart than he'd had the night before.

John came back out toweling his hair. "Tell me about the case."

"An MP was found dead in the wrong part of town."

"Mistress, prostitute?"

"No idea until I take a look, but nothing seems to suggest it. I'm going to go see the wife this morning."

John glanced over his shoulder as he pulled on his jeans, "Going to pull your 'Alas, poor Yorick' performance again?"

"My what?"

"Trick the widow with your fake tears—old friend of the deceased. I suppose she's guilty."

"No, I'm sure she isn't, by all accounts, they were very happy together, but yes, I may manipulate her for information and tears are often a very good way to do that."

John looked at him aghast. "But you can't. Not when someone's really in pain. That's just cruel. Wait a few days. Do something else."

"I'll do what I need to do, John. Why are you so surprised?"

"I thought, after this," John waved at the room, the bed, "that you wouldn't be able to do that.

"It's what I do, John. It's all I know how to do. This changes nothing. I don't know why you think it would. I'll still come home to you. This is just a case like a dozen others. Why are you so concerned?"

"I don't like to see innocent people hurt. You have other methods. Go to the crime scene, insinuate yourself into the morgue. Use Lestrade's ID. Just do something else."

Sherlock looked up surprised, "Are you telling me how to solve a case?"

"No, just making suggestions." John sat on the bed to finish tying his shoes. "I'm trying to tell you that it's a bit not good. Just like I always have."

"But if I need to do it, then I will do it. Perhaps I won't need to do it, but I doubt that I'll get in the front door if I don't use that kind of tactic. I could try to be sympathetic, but that seldom yields any usable results."

"Is it enough for me to say that I don't want you to do it this time?"

"No."

"Oh."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, "You said that I don't get to tell you not to come. Fine. But you don't get to tell me how to do my work. You don't know how to do it. You don't observe. You're just like the rest of the stupid population and you don't get to stop me. Do you understand? This doesn't change anything. You said you wanted me to be me. Well, this is me. This is what I do. And you know that. You knew that when you kissed me in the airport. Did you think your kiss was magic and I'd suddenly stop wanting to solve the puzzles, needing to solve them ANY WAY I can?"

"I thought that my loving you and thinking that you were clever might be enough, or might give you enough humanity to stop being callous! I thought that loving me might show you that people can hurt!" Just like the night before John's voice was rising while Sherlock remained perfectly calm.

"Well, apparently you were wrong. I don't care and if loving you means that I have to stop this, then…it's better that we end this now, because I will never stop and I will never give it up. Not for you, not for anyone."

"And if solving the puzzle meant driving someone to suicide, would you still do it? If it meant sleeping with someone else even though that would destroy me almost as much as your death, would you still do it?

"You said that losing me would kill you. That's clearly not true. Your true love really is your work!

"I'm getting some air." John grabbed his coat from the closet and raged out of the room.

Sherlock stared at the closed door for some minutes. It was over before it had begun. What always happened had happened; just one more person who didn't understand. He'd thought John would be different, but in the end he wasn't.

The work was still here and that was all that mattered. The rest was transport and the day before had been a lovely trip, but the problem with trips is that they always come to an end. He resolved to shut down that part of his mind and went to take a shower.

But when he came back out and looked at the disheveled room he could feel that resolve slipping. He sat on the bed and drew his knees up to his chest.

He wished now that he hadn't washed off John's scent. He wanted to roll in the sheets they'd shared. After he left the room the staff would come in and strip the bed and the sheets would be run through scalding water with bleach and all traces would be gone. For a moment he thought about asking the hotel if he could buy them, to save them always, a reminder of the day when he'd been perfectly happy and content. But they would grow stale within a week, and the scent would be gone. Sentiment was a useless emotion.

When John came back Sherlock's things were gone. There was a credit card in Mycroft's name on the desk and his plane ticket home. He knew that if Sherlock wanted to hide, then the amateur detective skills of an ex-army doctor weren't going to be much good.

The plane ticket was for two days away. There was no point in staying in Edinburgh any longer. John doubted that he would ever want to come back to Scotland again. He called the airline. It was surprisingly easy to change the date, probably because Mycroft's office had made the arrangements. He wondered how he should return the card to Mycroft. Put it in the hollow of a tree, a loose brick like a spy in a detective novel?

His flight was four hours away. For awhile he just sat on the bed. He hurt inside in a way he hadn't felt since fifth form when his first love had broken his heart. Angry and frustrated and confused and devastated. He checked his phone but there were no messages. He couldn't decide if he should apologize first or wait for Sherlock, but waiting for Sherlock to apologize could take until the end of time. Right now he needed to get back to London where he could sit and think.

Four days later Sherlock sat in his brother's official office in Whitehall. "What the hell was that little adventure?"

"You solved it, I take it?"

"Promised votes to the wrong people. Had an attack of conscience and couldn't go through with it. They didn't take kindly to it. I figured it out from records on the internet and a brief trip to records. Any of your minions could have sussed that from here."

"Then why did you spend a further four days in Edinburgh?"

Sherlock looked away. "I'm quite sure you know why."

"I have my suspicions. Pity. When John caught up with you in the airport I thought that things were finally resolved in your favor."

"Well, you were wrong. Extraordinary but true.

"You sent me up there in the hopes that something would come to a head, didn't you? Well, once again, dear brother, your meddling has wrecked the course of my life."

"Have you spoken to John? It is possible to repair a relationship, Sherlock. People do it all the time. One of you apologizes, the other apologizes and all is well."

"Not this. Not when someone you love…misunderstands you so completely. It's as if he told me that I needed to stop breathing in order to be with him."

"But you find breathing boring."

If looks could kill, Mycroft would have been a pile of ash. "You should talk to him. It may still be possible to bring him round to your point of view," Mycroft continued unperturbed.

"I don't want to." Mycroft smiled sadly at his brother, his six year old/thirty-four year old brother.

"Go back to Baker Street. Think about it for a few days. Get over your temper tantrum. Don't look at me like that—we both know that's what this is. John is probably somewhere thinking about his right now."

"John will be at Baker Street. I'll stay somewhere else."

"Please don't use one of my safe houses. It's such a nuisance when you do that. It means we have to start from scratch with a new one.

"At any rate, I happen to know that John is not at Baker Street. I presumed that he stayed with you, or at any rate in Edinburgh, or with some relative."

Sherlock looked up sharply. "What do you mean you don't know where he is? He checked out of the hotel and flew back to London on Boxing Day. And he doesn't have any relatives except his sister and he'd be pretty desperate to go to her."

But John was not at his sisters, and he wasn't at Sarah's and when Sherlock returned to Baker Street Mrs. Hudson was surprised that John hadn't returned with him.

Sherlock bounded up the stairs. There was a piece of paper attached to the door with cello-tape.

 _Do you think they serve coffee in Coffeyville?  
_   
_I doubt we'll get a decent cup of tea.  
_   
_But if you've got some time to kill  
_   
_Why don't you come over and play with me?  
_   
_Let's play in the middle  
_   
_And see what we see._

 _-Jim_

 _Oh, and I have a nice, new blog for you to RSVP, just like Dr. Watson_


End file.
